


Leave of Absence

by Morgana



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: BDSM, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-01
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-05 18:27:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 4
Words: 10,082
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/44726
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morgana/pseuds/Morgana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The pauses right before the apocalypse are what really break your heart</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Wesley didn't look up when a black-clad figure slid into the booth opposite him. Someone had been bound to find him eventually. Although he'd hoped to have another day or two before they came looking. Still, he'd probably bought himself a few hours by being here instead of at his apartment. Which brought up the question... "How'd you find me?"

"Wasn't hard, just had to think like a homesick ex-pat."

He chuckled, a dry, raspy sound that didn't hold an ounce of humor in it and nodded, gesturing briefly at the room around them. "Most Americans don't know what they're missing, do they?"

"No, but then most Yanks wouldn't appreciate a decent local if it reared up and bit 'em on the ass."

"Very true." Wesley finally glanced up, tearing his gaze away from the warm honey-colored liquid in his glass to the blue eyes that regarded him steadily across the table. Spike wasn't the type to listen to him cry in his beer, even if he was drinking beer, and there was something comforting about that. Blame it on the six scotches, but it took a minute before he noticed the various cuts and bruises on the other man's features, but he didn't think a big deal would be appreciated. So he just jerked his chin at Spike and asked, "What happened?"

"S'pose I could say it was stairs, but you wouldn't believe it for a minute." Spike beckoned a waitress over and looked at Wesley's glass. "What're you havin'?"

"Macallan, neat." It was 30-year-old scotch, from a bottle that he'd brought with him, but he didn't mention that part.

"Same as him, ducks." The girl looked at Wesley and he nodded. There was plenty to spare, both here and more at home, and he could afford to be generous. It wasn't every day he got to talk with a newly recorporealized ghost, after all.

"So you and Angel had it out then."

Spike nodded, and when the waitress brought his drink, gave her a grateful smile and took a healthy swallow, all but purring when the rich taste slid down his throat. "Big mess about His Jackassedness' prophecy. They'll leap to fill you in when you get back, I'm sure." A sharp gaze pinned Wesley in place. "Speakin' of..."

"We weren't, but do feel free to prod." The dry tone earned him a smile and half-raised glass from the vampire. But instead of asking, Spike merely cocked an eyebrow and Wesley sighed. "Angel felt I needed some time away from the office, so I took a short leave of absence."

"So in other words, the ponce benched you an' you're mad as hell about it."

Wesley nodded. He had protested the idea when Angel first broached it, then argued vehemently when he was informed that it wasn't optional. In the end, he'd had to give in after Angel threatened to bar him from the building, but he was getting his revenge in his own way. It had been clear that Angel expected him to bask in the sunshine, call his parents and tell them he loved them, go for a walk in the park with a pretty girl and in short, pretend he was like any other human, so instead Wesley had, after that first disastrous call to his father, ordered two cases of Macallan and kept to his apartment and the pub, only venturing out after dark, as if he were the vampire, rather than his misguided friend. "He means well, but-"

"But that doesn't help when he's not listenin' to a word you're sayin'." Spike's voice said clearer than words that he was very familiar with that kind of situation, and Wesley wondered again how much abuse William had taken before he remade himself. There was a heaviness, a weariness to the words that made him realize that whatever had happened today must have been a hundred years in the making, and he didn't envy Spike the pain and rage that must've driven him to it.

"I know you won't want to tell me now, but one day I'd like to hear the full story of how William became Spike," Wesley commented.

"Might do," was the cautious reply. "'S a long story an' not one I'd wanna see end up in the Watchers' records." The blond finished off his drink and Wesley held two fingers up to summon the waitress before finishing his own as well.

"I think it's safe to say that any possible association with that organization was effectively severed when I demonstrated a willingness to kill my father rather than allow a vampire to be taken hostage," he returned.

"Rubbish. You shot the person threatenin' your girl, didn't bother to look at who it was an' that's as it should be. Woulda done the same thing myself." Spike paused when the waitress brought fresh drinks over. "Don't suppose you have any of those bloomin' onion things, do you, pet?"

"Sure do, sweetie. You want me to bring you one?" She let her eyes wander down over the blond's body, obviously enjoying the view despite the visible wounds he sported.

"Kiss your feet if you would." The flirtatious words were clearly second nature to the vampire, even if the leer or smile that might usually have accompanied them was missing. Spike waited until she'd left before returning to the conversation. "Shouldn't waste time beatin' yourself up for what you did, mate. Hell, I've done worse an' she wasn't even my girl then. Never was, really," he concluded glumly.

Wesley thought about the dark, hollow eyes of the Slayer that had shocked him when the ragtag group came through Los Angeles after the battle. "I'm not so sure about that," he murmured. "And Fred's not my girl. She's just-"

"A friend." Spike spoke the last words with him, then snorted. "Yeah, you keep on tellin' yourself that."

Wesley thought about arguing the point, but the waitress came back with a large fried onion and plenty of spicy dipping sauce, and after she'd left (although not before she tried and failed to get Spike's attention), he decided it really wasn't worth the trouble. He broke off a piece of onion and popped it into his mouth instead, the sharp, greasy treat oddly filling. Spike was busy tucking in as well, so Wesley let the idea of heavy conversation go and turned the topic to football.

They were still arguing about the British Football League an hour and a half later, with Wesley trying to convince Spike that the benefits outweighed the problems while Spike staunchly insisted that the adoption of it would mean the end of football in England forever. Their waitress had given up on flirting with either of them and settled on keeping them well-supplied with drinks, fried onions and buffalo wings. They had long ago finished the bottle Wesley brought with him, and were almost done with a third after it, although to be fair, Spike had drunk most of the last bottle and some by himself. Wesley was slowing down, having reached that state of pleasant warmth and easy acceptance that cast his world in a soft amber glow.

It was somewhere in the middle of the glow that he had suggested leaving the bar and going back to his apartment to open another of the older bottles. Spike agreed and they set off, walking towards Wesley's place and chatting with an easy familiarity that would've been impossible between the two of them before they spent the night drinking together. About four blocks from home, a clatter from the alleyway behind a Starbucks drew their attention and they both slowed to a stop.

Peering into the alley, Wesley saw a large, hunched figure crouched on the asphalt. A long tongue snaked out to lick the inside of a discarded cardboard coffee cup, the low rumbling growl of pleasure making Wesley smile. A raccoon, scavenging for garbage, and apparently one that had developed a taste for caffeine at that. He relaxed, starting to look at Spike when a passing car's beams made the creature look up, and his smile faded. No raccoon he'd ever heard of had bright purple eyes.

The thing leapt at him, and Wesley went sprawling underneath it. Claws dug into his chest through his shirt, pricking without breaking skin as a long, pointed muzzle snuffled at his collar. A gust of air blew across his skin as the demon sniffed him, but it had no time to do whatever it was attempting before it was lifted off his chest, and from the sound of it, flung across the alley. Wesley looked up to see Spike standing over him in full game face, lips curled back in a snarl.

The demon rolled from its back onto all four feet and charged them. Spike hauled Wesley up and shoved him back against a wall before the demon bowled him over. They rolled over into a pool of light from a streetlamp, growling and hissing, and Wesley stared in amazement at a creature he'd been told was extinct.

It was small, only about the size of a standard poodle, and for a few seconds, he was caught by the beauty of it. Reddish-brown scales covered its body, tapering down to a tail that was still slightly stumpy but would undoubtedly grow as it matured. There were no wings yet, and the snout that would one day spout fire hadn't broadened like it would eventually, but there was no doubt that it was, indeed, a dragon. A little one, anyway. "Good God, it's just a baby," he muttered, taking a step towards them.

"It's still a soddin' dragon!" Spike snapped, wrapping both hands around the snout, struggling to hold it closed. Just because it wasn't breathing fire didn't mean that a bite wouldn't hurt like hell. He managed to roll them back over and smash the dragon's head onto the ground. The first real pain made the dragon screech and begin to thrash, claws raking across Spike's chest to shred his shirt. The vampire leapt back with a growl and dropped into a crouch when the dragon rolled onto its feet again. "Weapon would be good right about now, Watcher!"

Wesley's hand shot behind him to the small of his back, where his knife usually rested. But it closed on empty air, and he swore. A slide down told him that the stake he'd meant to tuck inside his waistband was also missing, which meant he could almost certainly forget about having brought his .45 as well. He began to pat himself down - jeans, breast pocket, inside his jacket, growing increasingly frantic as he continually came up empty when his fingers brushed against a lump in his left jacket pocket. "Oh, thank God."

He pulled the lump out of his jacket and tossed it to Spike, who caught it automatically in one hand, then whipped around when he saw what it was. "Chocolate-covered espresso beans? You want me to fight off a dragon with fucking coffee?!?"

"I didn't exactly plan on running into a dragon on the way home, you know!"

The dragon came at him again and Spike roared when it leapt onto his back and drove him to his knees. "Bloody hell! Don't care if you've gotta get a spork, get this soddin' thing off me!" He raised his hand to smack the dragon's head, the dragon immediately snapping in retaliation.

Wesley ran past the struggling combatants and began to rummage through the dumpster bin, trying to remember anything he'd read about dragons. Like all young Watchers, he'd been enthralled with the idea of them, but his father had forbidden him to spend much time on them, saying he needed to concentrate more on demons he was actually likely to come across in the field. Well, he certainly wished he could tell his father just what he'd come across in the field tonight!

He found the remains of a packing crate and snapped a long piece of wood off, but had to rethink his strategy when he turned around. Spike had managed to get the dragon off his back and dragon and vampire were now circling each other, gold and purple eyes never leaving the other. Spike still clutched the bag of coffee beans, and the dragon was snapping at the hand that held it every so often, but too low to actually catch any flesh in its mouth.

Wesley had a sudden idea. "Spike, it wants the coffee beans!" he called out.

The vampire looked down at the bag he held, then at the dragon. "Want a snack, pet?" he asked. "Then have some!" He reared back and threw the bag across the street, the dragon immediately wheeling and racing for it. Grabbing hold of Wesley's hand, Spike pulled him into a run, the wooden slat clattering on the street behind them as he dropped it.

They sprinted down the sidewalk, hearing a faint roar that was either triumph at recovering the coffee or rage at the loss of potential prey, but neither looked back until they burst over the threshold of Wesley's apartment. Or at least, until Wesley burst over the threshold. Spike hit the barrier and bounced back about two feet. "Come in, Spike," Wesley managed to gasp from where he was doubled over, hands braced on his knees as he took air in in great greedy gulps.

He straightened up and went back to his bedroom to call Angel and let him know about the dragon. There was no answer either at the office or penthouse, so Wesley left messages that probably wouldn't be retrieved until Harmony came in on Monday. He described the dragon, where they had found it, and added that he was extending his leave of absence for at least a couple of days. Angel wasn't likely to protest, and Wesley decided he would wait until the Macallan was completely gone before he went back. He hung up and returned to the living room to find Spike standing in front of his weapons display.

"Nice little set-up you've got here," the vampire commented. "Coulda used some of this back in the alley, yeah?"

"I can't imagine why I forgot them," Wesley said. He reached out, stroking the smooth wood of a crossbow in a gentle caress.

"Office work," Spike explained. "Makes you soft an' then you get careless an' one day it's bye-bye Watcher." He took a dagger from the wall and turned it over in his hands. "Good balance."

Wesley smiled at the sight of the one he'd chosen. "Angel brought that back from a trip," he said. "Four hundred years old and it holds an edge better than anything else I own. I took a Grethna's head off with one swing with that."

"Really?" Spike looked impressed. He spun the knife around a few times, then handed it back. "Never was one for collectin' myself, but there was an axe in Sunnydale... Slayer an' I brought down five Kashives an' it was still sharp enough to split hairs with after."

Wesley nodded and put the dagger back on its pegs. "What happened to it?" he asked, then immediately wished he hadn't when Spike's face darkened.

"Lost, just like everything else, I s'pose." The blond shrugged, but it was obvious that there was a lot more pain there than he let on. "Now, what about that drink?"

"Of course." Wesley gestured towards the living room. "Have a seat and I'll bring it right out." He went into the kitchen to get one of the bottles, making short work of opening it and pouring two very generous tumblers. "I should probably let it breathe, but after the dragon I'm thinking we could use a -"

"Drink?" Spike smirked up at him from where he was seated in a loose-limbed sprawl on the couch. He'd taken his shirt and boots off, setting the boots off to the side while the ruined shirt was balled up and dropped on the floor. Glancing down, he shrugged. "Dragon had somethin' on its claws, burned like hell," he said.

Wesley nodded and held out the drink, trying not to stare too openly at the half-naked vampire on his sofa. Sitting down at the other end of the couch, he cleared his throat, strangely nervous. "So are you enjoying your newfound solidity?"

"Oh yeah." Spike accepted his glass and took a drink, then set it aside. "Had some blood, a proper drink, got a nice little buzz started an' some decent violence to top it all off. Only one thing missin' an' I'm all set."

Wesley's lips curved in a wry twist over the brim of his glass. "I can imagine what that thing is," he chuckled.He had to admit, that would probably be foremost in his own mind if he'd spent the last several months being insubstantial, and he wasn't anywhere near the sensualist that vampires were known to be. But there was something about the look in those blue eyes and the lazy way Spike's hand was circling his stomach that made Wesley think he wasn't talking about heading off to a club to pick up a girl. He opened his mouth to say something - what, he was never sure because before he could get the words out, a firm pair of lips covered his and stopped any speech cold.

The kiss caught him off-guard, and he sat stunned for several seconds before a tongue brushed over his lips. Without thinking, he parted to invite it in, and it slipped inside to twine around his own. An unseen hand took the tumbler away and a distant click told him it had been set down on the end table, but Wesley was more interested in the knowledge that he now had his hands free. One slipped around the slender waist, fingers dipping down beneath the black denim to graze the skin beneath, while the other sought the sharp plane of Spike's face, tracing the high slash of his cheekbone.

He could taste scotch and cigarettes and the sharp bite of onion, and he wondered what he must taste like to the vampire. When he tried to twist and lay down, hands closed on his shoulders to hold him still. "Easy, pet." Spike's voice was low and rough with desire, and Wesley nodded faintly. Lips pressed into his palm when the blond turned his head, the tip of a tongue sweeping over skin in a light tease that made them both shudder.

Spike slid down to kneel on the floor and Wesley moaned a faint protest when his hand slid away from that silky smooth skin. The moan ended in a sharp inhalation as Spike's hand closed around his erection, squeezing him through his jeans. He stripped his shirt off and tilted his head back, eyes drifting closed, giving himself up to the pleasure that was building all too quickly. The memories of why he'd enjoyed being Head Boy so much were coming back to him - a private room had come with the position, where he and his best friend had spent a very enjoyable year using that privacy to explore each other's bodies and their own sexuality.

Wesley groaned, the rough fondling so much like those early, frantic petting sessions that he nearly came in his jeans. "Stop," he gasped, his spine bowing as he fought to keep himself under control. "I can't - you have to - "

"Don't wanna stop," was the low answer. He forced his eyes open to see Spike's glittering up at him. "Wanna see what's under that control, strip it away an' make you spill like a schoolboy, yeah?"

The thought that Spike could somehow read his mind, see all the memories of the hasty, dirty fumblings was his undoing. A particularly hard squeeze made him buck up with a long, low moan as he came. The denim under Spike's hand grew soaked in seconds, a dark sticky spot that the vampire bent his head to suckle at, earning another faint gasp.

Spike surged to his feet and Wesley reached for him, only to have his hands batted away. "Not gonna last if you touch me," the blond muttered. "Gonna be short enough as it is." He made short work of his belt and yanked his jeans open, hand closing around his cock as soon as it was free. Wesley's eyes darted from the features that seemed set in stone to the hard shaft that he was fisting rapidly. "Wanna fuck you," he muttered, his eyes burning down into Wesley's. "Fuck an' suck an' ride you an' - ahhhh, Christ! Fuck!" Liquid shot out, spattering over Wesley's chest before it slid over Spike's hand that was still squeezing his dick, hips pumping back and forth while he worked down from his orgasm.

Wesley licked his lips, wondering what the hell had just happened. It had been like he remembered - fast, dirty and hot enough to melt steel. He lightly touched his bare chest, fingers stroking over bare skin that was slick with Spike's spendings, absently rubbing a few drops in. Without thinking, he raised his hand and licked at his fingers, curious to see if a vampire tasted different than a human. He didn't.

A ragged groan made him look back at Spike, who was watching him with hot eyes even as he tucked himself away. "Shouldn't do that, pet. Makes it hard to be a good boy." He panted, and Wesley wondered absently if that was an instinct that survived after death or something unique to Spike. Finally the blond nodded. "Just give us a second an' I'll get goin', all right? An' don't worry, I won't say a word."

To his surprise, Wesley heard himself say quietly, "You don't have to leave if you don't want to. I'm still on leave of absence, after all, and there's three more bottles to finish before I go back."

Spike shot him a look that he couldn't quite read, narrowing his eyes as though trying to figure out what angle he was working from. Wesley met his gaze steadily and the vampire nodded slowly, then shoved his jeans down and stepped out of them, kicking the crumpled black fabric away. Sauntering over to the couch, he moved to straddle the other man, slowly lowering himself down until one hand slid into blond hair to bring him in for a kiss.

The next two and a half days passed in a blur of scotch and skin, both men doing their level best to forget everything outside of the apartment, concentrating only on the taste of come, the sound of harsh cries and the press of bodies as they moved together, lust driving them on over and over again until both lay exhausted and sticky on the ruined sheets. Wesley decided that just maybe, a leave of absence wasn't such a bad thing, after all. But that was until he woke up to a cold, lonely bed and the sight of the empty Macallan bottle on the nightstand.


	2. Chapter 2

"You switched brands." The vampire's voice wasn't accusing or upset. It wasn't anything, really, except perhaps mildly curious.

Wesley looked confused for a moment, then nodded. "Yes."

"Any particular reason?"

He shrugged. There were a hundred reasons for it, but he didn't think Spike really wanted to hear any of them. Or, to be more precise, Wesley didn't want to tell them. He didn't want the demon to know that Macallan reminded him of shared cigarettes and mingled groans of pleasure, or that the smooth taste was too sweet and cloying on his tongue now. So he did what he did best now - he changed the subject. "Where's Illyria?"

"Wouldn't shut up about her kingdom an' us bein' miniscule fleas on bugs, so I told her to go bug Angel about needin' a duchess for his little fiefdom here. Serves him right for puttin' her off on me." Spike sat down across from Wesley. There was a long silence before he said quietly, "She wouldn't want this an' you know it."

"Somehow I doubt Illyria cares one way or the other about my drinking habits."

Spike shot him a censorious look. "Don't get cute with me. You know perfectly well who I mean."

"But she's not here, is she? She's gone, so you'll forgive me if I don't exactly take her wants into consideration!" The glass was slammed down onto the table with a sharp crack.

"Maybe you should, then! Christ, don't you get it? Her wants are all that's left!"

It was like raving a red flag in front of the proverbial bull. "Stop it! What would you know about it?" The words flew out of Wesley's mouth before he thought better, the tight lips and tic in Spike's jaw telling him the arrow had found its mark. Shame and regret were almost immediate, but when he opened his mouth to say so, an upraised hand stopped him.

"Yeah, you're right. Wouldn't know anythin' about losin' the light of my life, the one person I loved more'n myself. Wouldn't have a clue about how you're feelin' lost an' alone, don't know a thing about the regrets that keep you up an' wake you in a cold sweat when you finally drop off. Couldn't imagine how you miss her enough to curl up an' die, but you can't cause she's left behind people an' things that have to be taken care of. An' I sure as hell haven't had to deal with something that was an exact copy of the person I was mournin' every single day. Cause I've never been through that, least not where it counted, right?" That quiet, even voice was worse than if he'd started yelling. "Forgot that I'm just a dead thing so far as you lot are concerned."

Spike started to get up but Wesley reached out and caught hold of his hand before he could leave. "Wait. I - I'm sorry. That was uncalled for and I had no right to say such a thing."

The blond shrugged. "Wouldn't worry about it."

Despite his posturing, it was pretty obvious the words had hit a sore spot somewhere inside. Wesley suspected it had something to do with the vampire's last words about being a 'dead thing', and he started to ask about it before he thought better and simply said, "You're right. If there's a single being in the world that would understand, it would be you."

Some of the tension eased from Spike's shoulders, and after a long look at Wesley, he leaned back in his chair. "What's the new poison, then?"

He didn't answer, just slid the glass across the table. One hand closed around it and something about the sight of that hand, so pale against the glass, made something deep inside him twist. Spike took a sip, rolled the liquid around in his mouth and swallowed with a low sound of approval and satisfaction. "Lagavulin... one of their better stocks, too."

"It seemed appropriate," was all Wesley said. He got up to get another glass from the cabinet, pausing for a second before deciding to take a second bottle over as well.

They drank in silence, a marked contrast to the easy camaraderie that they'd enjoyed in their last night of drinking. It was fitting, Wesley supposed. If that earlier night had been a victory celebration, this was a wake. As they neared the bottom of the second bottle, Spike said softly, "Can't ever fill that hole with drink, mate. Tried it, almost drank Sunnydale dry an' it never helped."

"Was there anything that did?"

"Killin'. Beatin' on whatever looked like it coulda hurt her until it couldn't walk anymore." Spike drained his glass, then set it down. "Bout as close as a vampire gets to grief, I reckon."

Wesley's lips curved in a bitter smile above the rim of his glass. "Somehow I doubt that's true."

"Kiddies believed it an' that was what mattered." He hadn't wanted them present for the rest of it, hadn't wanted them to see him cry and beg the universe to either bring her back or send him after her. They'd had enough trouble holding themselves together to worry about a heartbroken vampire.

He snorted. "Yes, well, their gullibility is rather well-documented." Another silence as he took a healthy swallow. "But I think I understand you wanting to hurt things. Sometimes I wish -"

"Wish what?"

"I wish I could fight her. Maybe... maybe it would be easier if I could hit her like you do." He paused and then said very softly, "It might make me hate her less."

Spike leaned forward, snagging the bottle and pouring out the last of it. "Doesn't help. Still hate her for takin' over, might even make it worse."

"No, not her."

"Fred, then?" Wesley nodded slowly, never lifting his head. Spike laid a hand on his, waiting until blue eyes raised to look at him before he spoke. "Shouldn't feel bad for that, pet. It's hard not to hate 'em for not bein' there, for leavin'... hell, even for bein' there in the first place."

He reached for his glass, turning it in his hand, staring down at the drink without raising it just yet. "So how did you quit hating her?"

"Didn't. She came back before I got there, didn't she?" Listening to the vampire's rueful tone, Wesley wondered if there might not be something even worse than the hell he currently found himself living, if getting Buffy back hadn't caused more harm than good. Spike rarely spoke about his time in Sunnydale, and he didn't feel comfortable asking just yet. He wondered if he ever would.

He took another drink, then choked on it when Spike offered, "Can hit me if you want."

Wesley coughed and set his glass down, then wiped watering eyes and looked back at the vampire. "Could you - I mean -"

"Said you can beat on me if you think it'll help." He shrugged, then finished his drink. The empty glass clinked when he set it on the table and stood up. "Didn't mean to upset you, though. I'll just -"

"Stop." The word flew out before he thought about it. He leaned forward, eyes trained intently on the blond. "If you're serious... if you - I mean..." He cleared his throat and then set his glass down and stood up. "You know where the bedroom is. Go in, strip and wait on the bed."

Spike nodded and slipped past him, prowling towards the hallway with a grace that managed to be both confident and submissive at the same time. When he was gone, Wesley ran a hand through his hair and sighed. What the hell was he doing, taking him up on this? Was he really that far gone, that lost in anger and grief that only violence would lay his demons to rest? And if he was, was it really fair to Spike to let him bear the brunt of it?

No. He couldn't do that to him, wouldn't abuse his aid and comfort like that. Angel never talked about his childe, had told no stories about William, but Wesley knew enough to read between the lines of what little the Watcher's Journals had to say about Angelus and his family. And he'd seen Spike's eyes when Angel threw out one of his harder comments, had even seen the younger vampire flinch once when his sire slammed a book down. That more than anything told him the truth.

He turned and went into the bedroom to tell Spike that he'd changed his mind, but he stopped dead in the doorway, all thought of words forgotten. The blond had done as instructed, and the sight of him, naked and kneeling in the center of the bed, wrists clasped behind him was breathtaking. "Bloody hell," he whispered, slowly walking towards him. One hand reached out, fingers stroking a sharply defined cheekbone. "What do you want for your safe word?"

Spike looked at him from beneath lowered lashes, a flash of blue that made him shudder. "No safe word," he said. "Just no stakin' or scarrin', an' if I'm good, may I come... Master?"

The word was like jagged shards of glass raking down his spine. "You'll get that if I say you do," he answered automatically. Spike had removed his belt and left it folded in front of him on the comforter. Wesley picked it up, watching the vampire shiver when he drew the leather through his hands. "Is this what you want, then?"

"Yeah," he breathed, licking his lips. "Been a bad boy, need to pay, right?"

Wesley didn't answer, just curled his hand around the back of Spike's neck and shoved him forwards. He automatically caught himself, then shifted, squaring himself onto all fours. The first smack of leather against skin and the soft hiss that followed shot through him like a drug. He'd forgotten about this, forgotten how good it could be to have someone begging you to hurt them just a little bit more. Fred had been so sweet, so gentle that he never would've asked her for this - indeed, couldn't have dreamed of hurting her even if she'd wanted him to. But now, with a vampire kneeling on his bed, it was all too easy.

The blows came quicker, turning the pale skin pink, raising welts that roused desire for the first time since he'd watched his love die. Wesley's jaw tightened and he drew back to hit harder when the end slipped out of his grasp. But instead of stopping, he brought the belt down on the long lean line of Spike's back, a dark sense of power and satisfaction surging through him when the blond moaned and arched under the strike. Leather whistled through the air as he struck out, losing himself to the rhythm as he expended what felt like years' worth of grief and rage on the helpless body before him.

Spike had been quiet at first, only the hiss of air through his teeth betraying any sensation, but when the belt was unfurled and the full lash licked over his skin, he gave himself over to it. His voice rose and fell with every lash, first in a low moan that rose to an almost keening wail when he was yanked up to a full kneel and the thick leather turned on his chest. Pain flared through his body, a white hot flame that reminded him that he was here, that he was, for lack of a better term, alive, and he welcomed it. The scent of blood and the liquid trickle over his skin from where the belt had cut into his chest only cranked the dial higher. By the time the strikes finally stopped, he was drunk, dazed with lust and pain, his entire body throbbing with the need for _more_.

Scarlet gleamed on white, pulling him back to reality, to the bedroom and the creature that had submitted to him. The creature that he had abused in a way that he didn't like to remember he was capable of. The belt fell out of his hand, hitting the floor with a dull thud that turned Wesley's stomach. He stared aghast at the marks that covered the blond, the previously flawless skin now covered in a cacophony of red, blue and purple. It was criminal, defacing such strength and beauty, like painting stick figures on the Sistine Chapel or adding obscene doodles to a Renoir. Shaking fingers reached out towards a particularly ugly bruise when a whispered, "Please," halted his progress.

Struggling to get back some of the control that he'd somehow lost, he asked, "Please what?" When there was no immediate reply, he pressed gently, "What do you want, Spike?"

"I - I want -" He faltered, obviously struggling with the words, unable to either pinpoint or voice the need that was eating him alive. Licking his lips, he whispered again, "Please."

Wesley's hand slid under his chin, tilting his face back to study him closely. There was no malevolence in the dilated eyes that met his, no raging fire that demanded he pay for what he'd done. Instead there was an almost desperate need, a frantic pleading for freedom that pulled him down to claim full lips in a hard kiss. One hand slid down to curl around the blond's cock and he squeezed tightly, then asked, "Is this what you need?"

Spike moaned, hands fisting at his sides. "Yeah. But I want -"

"More? You want me to fuck you?" Wesley released him and moved to unfasten his jeans, the sudden resurgence of his own lust making him almost clumsy. His prick was hard, pressing up against his underwear and the rush of cool air over his skin only turned him on more.

Dazed eyes looked down at his cock, and the tongue that darted out to lick dry lips made him moan. "Wanna taste you... please, Master?" The soft voice was unlike anything he'd ever have imagined could come from the brash vampire's lips, the contrast in his usual style only heightening his arousal.

Without bothering to answer, he cupped the back of Spike's head and guided him downwards. It was all the permission he needed. A wet tongue swept across his tip and then he was drawn into an eager mouth. Wesley groaned and pressed forward as he was taken all the way in. The blond's cheeks hollowed as he sucked hard before slowly moving back to release him to lick in long laps all over the other man's shaft.

All too soon Wesley shoved his head back. "Stop or you won't get fucked," he hissed.

Spike released him with a low whine, but obediently shifted, spreading his legs and lowering himself from hands to forearms. He was on fire, the earlier pain combining with desire to make him burn with an exquisite need that felt like it would devour him given half a chance. A hand slid through his hair before Wesley retreated from his sight, moving to retrieve the lube from the nightstand drawer.

The bed shifted as he climbed onto the mattress, and Spike whimpered when a slick finger teased at his hole. Christ, he needed - "Please, just fuck me," he begged. "Need - need you, please."

Wesley hesitated. "Are you sure?"

"Bloody hell, yes!" He squirmed as the finger brushed against him again. "God, please!"

A moment of silence answered him as Wesley positioned himself, then thrust forward. Spike screamed as he tore under the assault, the sound equal parts pain and pleasure as he was filled in a single motion. Wesley groaned, hands tightening on the slender hips against his own as he fought the urge to move. A press back against him and he lost the battle, pulling almost all the way back only to slam forward with a hard snap of his hips.

Blood slicked the way, the scent threatening to drive him insane. Spike's hands curled into the comforter as he hung on for dear life, every stroke forward coaxing ragged moans and inhuman noises from his throat. Wesley set the pace, hard and fast and dirty, and it was so damned good that he didn't care if he ever got to come. Sweat gleamed on both bodies as they fucked, their guttural half-formed words and the sound of skin smacking against skin like something straight out of a cheap porno.

Fingers dug into hips, leaving bruises that wouldn't last more than a day. Wesley's face was set, his eyes glittering as he fucked Spike, taking him with short, brutal thrusts that made the vampire mewl under him in plaintive need. He rode him with a hard purpose, as though he could somehow exorcise all the anger and pain, lose it in the tight feel of Spike's body beneath his own. He could feel his climax rising and just before it rolled him under, he thrust deep inside and gasped, "Come for me." One hand slid in to close around Spike's dick, squeezing it firmly, his grip just the pleasurable side of painful.

"FUCK!" Spike convulsed with a ringing cry, shaking against Wesley as his orgasm was torn from him. It wasn't an easy release, but one born from fire that ripped through his veins like lightning. He was thrown from earth and sent hurtling through the sky, and it was a long time before he drifted back to awareness, only to find himself in Wesley's bathtub, cradled against the other man's chest.

"Nice to see you awake," Wesley said quietly. "I was beginning to think I'd broken you."

It took a few minutes for Spike to remember words, let alone how to speak. "Not sure you didn't," he muttered. He felt almost drugged, still wrapped in a lazy euphoria that kept him tingling and sensitive to the touch. One hand stroked up his arm, then disappeared and returned with a glass that was brought to his lips. He obediently took a sip of the offered liquid, eyes widening as he recognized the taste. Once the glass retreated, he asked, "What happened to switchin' brands?"

Wesley took a healthy swallow of the Macallan and set the glass back on the ledge by the tub. "Never said it was a permanent switch." He took a shaky breath. "Spike, I -"

"Not a word, pet. Got what I wanted out of the deal, didn't I?" There was no sharpness in the vampire's voice, just a quiet understanding of the need that had brought them together.

Wesley just offered the glass for another drink. There was nothing else he could say. They stayed in the tub for some time, passing drinks back and forth until at long last both men managed to stumble into bed where they both collapsed. And this time when he woke to find his last empty bottle of Macallan on the nightstand next to his lonely bed, Wesley wasn't surprised.


	3. Chapter 3

Spike bounded down the steps, applause still ringing in his ears. He felt like he could fly. This was what he’d been missing all his life, this was the heady sensation he’d been chasing without realizing it every time he put pen to paper, and it was so much better than he ever could’ve imagined it. Who'd have thought it could feel that good to have people like your work? One thing was for damn sure - he was making it out of tonight’s fight and he was going to write about it. And about Buffy and Angel and Dawn, too. It might’ve taken almost two hundred years, but he’d gotten his first taste of triumph, and he damn sure wasn’t about to let it be his last.

“Angel said you were a poet, but I must confess, I never actually believed him.” The quiet comment jerked him back to reality, but the words that followed flung him right back up in the air. “You were magnificent.”

He shrugged, trying to act like he wasn’t two seconds away from preening under the cool blue gaze. “’S a load of oversentimental twaddle, but -”

“But you were young,” Wesley reminded him. “Tennyson’s early works are viewed by many as overly sentimental and derivative, but he had the chance to live and put that life experience into his poetry. You didn’t.”

Spike couldn’t think of anything to say. He was as about as far removed from Lord Alfred as a toddler scribbling with crayons, but the very idea that Wesley thought he might’ve produced something better as he aged was enough to make him feel very small and humble indeed. It was enough to make him wonder, with a bittersweet pang, if he could have actually made something of himself if his life hadn’t been cut short. “Guess we’ll never know,” he said, then shook his head, trying to shake off the brief whisper of melancholy along with it. “Anyways, how come you ain’t tucked away with Big Blue, ruminatin’ on her long lost kingdom an’ the days we were all muck?”

The question earned him a wry smile. “Looking back doesn’t exactly appeal to me right now. I daresay Angel and Illyria will do enough of that for all of us.”

“True, that,” Spike agreed. “So what say we take on the drinkin’ duties an’ leave them to the rememberin’? Reckon you’ve got a stash of somethin’ at your place, yeah?”

It was an invitation to more than a drink and they both knew it. But Wesley didn’t even hesitate, just nodded and turned around, Spike falling into step with him as they walked back to Wesley’s apartment. Neither of them spoke, perhaps because they didn’t want to disturb the easy, companionable silence, or because they were both enjoying the anticipation of a pleasurable evening ahead. Spike didn’t know and he didn’t really care, not when the day was going to be ending on a particularly sweet note.

Wesley let them into his apartment and Spike made himself comfortable on the couch while Wesley went to grab a bottle and two glasses. Macallan again, Spike noted, smiling at the sight of it. He took the glass when it was handed over, closing his eyes for a moment to savor it as the first mouthful slipped down. “Gotta hand it to you, mate - you know your stuff.”

“It’s part of being a Watcher,” Wesley said, and remembering Giles’ well-stocked liquor cabinet, Spike wouldn’t be surprised if that was true. “Goes right along with the stiff upper lip and the refusal to allow the Slayer any autonomy of her own.”

“Old farts must be turnin’ in their graves over you lot out here an’ in Sunnydale, then.” Spike smirked at him and took another drink. “I ever tell you ‘bout the time the Council stopped in at my crypt?” Wesley shook his head and Spike laughed. “They knew I was chipped an’ still sent three Watchers in, armed to the teeth, to ask about the Slayer. Swear to Christ one of the little ponces wet himself when I growled at him on his way out.” He raised the glass for another sip. “Bint with ‘em wasn’t half bad, though. Actually said she wrote her soddin’ thesis on me.”

Wesley chuckled. “That would be Lydia,” he commented. “She always did have a rather unhealthy yearning to experience what she used to call ‘the intoxicating embrace of the darkness’.” He shook his head, then gave Spike a sly smile. “Too bad she never got to realize just how much better than her fantasies the real thing is.”

“Who said she didn’t?” But before Wesley could react to that, Spike shook his head. “Don’t worry, mate, I didn’t. Although if I’d realized then what kinda heat some of you lot are packin’ under all that tweed, I mighta.”

“Most of them aren’t like me.” Wesley took a drink. “Or perhaps I should say that I wasn’t like them. Not really, although I tried very hard.” But he’d never fit in as naturally as the rest, too interested in magic to devote himself properly to his studies, too curious for his own good. Story of his life, although unlike the mythical cat, satisfaction hadn’t done anything but get him in deeper.

“Should take heart in that, pet. After all, they’re dead an’ you ain’t.” Although that might change by this time tomorrow. “You an’ me… we’re survivors. No shame in that.” He tossed back the last of his drink and refilled his glass. “Sides, you think you were a right royal ponce, shoulda seen me back when I was human.”

“I’d like to hear about it,” Wesley said quietly, and Spike obligingly told him all about his awkward past, right down to the tweed walking suit he’d worn to a dinner party. It was difficult to picture the brash blond in anything but his usual tight jeans and black leather, let alone as a shy, retiring young man that stammered and let himself be bullied, but he felt a strange new kinship to Spike by the time the story wound down, and he offered up his thanks with a story about his own first weeks at Eton.

They kept talking, sharing stories about their past while they worked their way through a few more glasses of scotch. But when Spike reached for the bottle after Wesley finished his second glass, Wesley stopped him. “No. I want a clear head this time. Something to remember -” he didn't finish, but both of them heard the words as if they were spoken loud and clear: In case this was the last thing they'd have to remember. Spike turned that keen blue gaze on him, but eventually nodded slowly and withdrew his hand.

Wesley hesitated for a moment, but he was the one who made the first move, licking his lips and leaning in towards Spike. The first kiss was tentative, almost awkward without the blur of liquor that had smoothed their way before. Eventually, however, Spike shifted restlessly, then slid sideways into Wesley’s lap, and then it was all too easy to open his mouth and invite the vampire in.

It seemed like hours that they sat on the couch, kissing and occasionally stealing a furtive grope, but in all likelihood, it was more like fifteen minutes before they broke apart, both breathing heavily. Wesley pushed Spike back a little so he could run a hand down over his chest and stomach, fingers spreading out over the length that pressed impatiently against Spike’s jeans. Spike’s hips shoved forward against his hand and he reached for the button and zipper, only to find himself stopped.

“Wanna do this right,” Spike said simply, and when Wesley nodded, he slid out of Wesley’s lap, tugging him to his feet to lead him back to the bedroom. There was more kissing while their clothes somehow vanished, leaving them tumbling naked into Wesley’s bed. “How you want it?” Spike asked, hand drifting down to wrap around Wesley’s cock, stroking him with an expert twist of the wrist that made speech all but impossible.

“I want -" Everything. He wanted it all - Spike's mouth on him, Spike’s cock in his mouth, Spike’s hands on him, Spike tight around him, but if he had to choose… “I want you in me.”

Spike groaned like he’d just been stabbed and rolled Wesley over onto his back. “Can’t just say somethin’ like that,” he muttered, reaching for the bedside table, only to have Wesley produce a fresh packet of lube from under his pillow. “Fuck, you plan for this, pet?”

Wesley shook his head, then admitted, “I thought maybe… and if you weren’t interested, I was going to -" He hesitated, and Spike drew in a sharp breath.

“Got a toy you were gonna fuck yourself with?” When Wesley nodded, Spike moaned. “Christ. Wish I could see that.” He kissed Wesley before he could offer to show him, urging his legs open as he said, “Maybe later. Need to get inside you right the fuck now.”

Two fingers rubbed over his hole and Wesley planted his feet on the bed and tilted his hips up into the touch, hissing as they pressed into him, slick and cool and perfect. He pulled Spike down for a kiss, cursing against his mouth when those fingers rubbed over his prostate just right. “Hurry. Want you inside.” Hopefully before he came all over himself from a little fingering.

Thankfully, Spike seemed to be just as eager as Wesley, because he made short work of the prep, quickly stretching him, adding a third finger for just a few thrusts before he was easing his fingers out and slicking himself up. Urging one of Wesley’s legs up to his shoulder, Spike lined up and started pushing inside, groaning as he sank into him. “Fuck, so hot an’ tight...”

Having Spike inside him was so much better than his vibrator. Wesley reached back to grab his ass, pulling him in tight, rocking against him to get him as deep as possible. He moaned when Spike started to move, fucking him with long strokes that filled him up the way he needed it. “God… yeah, like that. Fuck, so good…”

“Yeah,” Spike growled, the sound vibrating through his body into Wesley’s. “Fuck, yeah. Givin’ it up so good for me, pet. Such a fuckin’ good boy.” He closed his hand on Wesley’s dick, stroking him along with his thrusts, and it wasn’t long before Wesley was bucking up into his fist and down onto his dick, crying out with a sound that was far from human as he shot all over his chest and stomach. Spike wasn’t far behind him, and the snarl he let out as he came was enough to make Wesley shiver with a sweet aftershock.

Afterward, Spike eased out and lay down beside him, helping Wesley drift back to earth with long, slow strokes over his chest. “Smell like sex,” he said, smiling as he leaned in to kiss him. “An’ me.”

“I’ve smelled like much worse,” was all Wesley said, giving Spike a heavily-lidded, satisfied smile. “And after tonight, perhaps I’ll take another leave of absence and we can spend a lazy Sunday or two in bed making both of us positively reek.”

“Sounds like a plan to me, pet.” Spike was always up for a day or twelve spent in bed finding out all the different ways to make his lover scream. He watched Wesley basking in the sated glow of the well-fucked, and was tempted to let him sleep, but it was already almost ten, and they had to be back at the office by eleven. That left just enough time for a shower - and maybe another round up against the tile, provided they were quick about it.

He kissed Wesley again, then reluctantly crawled out of bed. “C’mon, best be gettin’ ready for the fight. Wash your back if you wash mine.”

“If that’s an invitation to shower sex, I’d love to take you up on it, but after coming like that, I’m afraid it would be like trying to wake the dead.” Wesley laughed and rolled out of bed, following him into the bathroom, where Spike showed him just what one hundred years and a natural oral fixation could do for his ability to not only wake the dead, but make them groan his name. And that was its own sort of poetry.


	4. Chapter 4

Spike gets it now.

Macallan's smooth, a drink to sip when you hit those little stumbling blocks that every life contains, something to warm you on a cold night. It's for dark nights and rainy days, made to be shared with a lover, passed back and forth on each other's lips and tongues. It's a sweet, sensual answer to life’s woes, beguiling the senses with a velvety whisper that leaves you wanting more.

Jack's for when you're drinking alone, trying to get drunk as quick as you can because every time you close your eyes you see a slim blonde body lying broken and bleeding at the foot or a tower. It's the companion for the nights that sleep comes slowly and you wake screaming from dreams of your hands dripped in gore, red-black to the elbows with blood that you spent years shedding, blood that will never wash off. It's a harsher drink and it burns all the way down to the pit of your stomach, where it doesn't quite manage to really wash away the pain, even if it does smooth some of the more jagged edges.

But Lagavulin... Lagavulin is what you turn to when it's not weeks or months that you have to get through, but a vast expanse of endless years and centuries. It's to ease whatever days are left you because you have nothing else to see you through. No, not ease. Ease implies a measure of peace, and Lagavulin is for when there will never be peace again, no matter what. It's a match in a vast blackness, but when it's all there is, you're more grateful than you ever thought possible to have it.

Spike has discovered that he is, indeed, pathetically grateful for it. Because this is worse than he ever knew it could get. No dreams of Italy and a smiling reunion, no fantasies about becoming human, no possibility of making a life for himself in LA. Because there is no LA anymore, not for him. No sire to taunt and mock and fight against while knowing deep down that he'll always be there, steady and soothing as the ocean waves. No little brown mouse with a devilish sense of humor, and no haughty blue god with icy, regal eyes either. No mate to trade stupid jokes and fighting stories over a shared beer with, even if they'd fought on opposite sides until fairly recently.

And no Wesley. No cultured tones to remind him of the gentle world of his upbringing, no tea brewed as only a true Englishman knows how, no passion hidden beneath a crisp, civilized exterior. No dry wit or wry smile, no arched eyebrows to hide amusement at Spike’s antics, no faint smell of parchment and ink mixed with scotch and blood. No hands that know just how to touch him, no shared pleasure to make the nights less lonely, no warm body to rub up against in those early, chill hours before dawn. The long nights and lazy Sundays they talked about will forever remain phantom hopes, just one more item added to Spike's long list of unrealized dreams.

He's had a lot of those. That tends to happen if you dream, so maybe it's just as well that he's done with dreaming. Dreams are for poets, not warriors, and certainly not pathetic wankers that never actually managed to succeed as one or the other. He used to think he could be both, that he was somehow special, but he knows better now. Surviving the battle in the alley doesn’t make him special, just very unlucky.

And very alone. There’s no sire, no slayer, no lover, no enemy, nobody on the entire planet that knows he’s here, no one that gives a damn whether he’s dust or not. Oh, he could pick up the phone, call Rupert or Andrew and weasel a ticket back to England out of them, but they’re Council now, and the Council turned its back on all of them when they could have used their help most. Rupert had let Fred die without even trying to save her, and Spike didn’t think he’d ever be able to forgive him for that.

Fucking Council. Always think they know better than anyone else, whether it’s Angel or their own slayer. Should’ve just let well enough alone, but it seemed the Watcher was pure tweed right down to his sanctimonious little soul. At least they hadn’t got their hooks back into Wesley, although Spike was sure they’d tried. Maybe even offered to take him off Angel’s hands, right along with the crazy slayer, to sweeten the deal.

He thinks about her, sometimes, the pitiful wreck of a girl that would be better off dead, although he doubted Rupert would be so merciful. That lot didn’t understand that sometimes death was preferable to life and its wasted hopes and shattered dreams. Of course, there aren’t any more dreams, just bitter regret that he does his best to wash away with one bottle of alcohol after another.

Macallan is an easy Irish pub band, while Jack's the screaming noise of punk. But neither of them can help him now. He’s left with Lagavulin, and he’s discovered that it’s an exquisite blend of the other two, a symphony of pain in its own right that glories in his heartache and doesn’t even attempt to do more than make it bearable. That’s why Wesley had turned to it in his darkest hour, seeking the only surcease he could hope to find. And it’s why Spike has holed up here in Wesley’s abandoned apartment, drinking his stores dry in a fruitless attempt to do the same. He hasn’t succeeded yet - not that he really expects to, but at least he’s come to see what Wesley meant when he talked about the relief that Lagavulin promised.

So yes, Spike understands now. He’s just not sure who he hates more for his new understanding - Wesley, Angel, or himself.


End file.
